Prince of Mist
by Nightlore
Summary: The nights have become long and agonizing for a young sorcerer living in secrecy amongst the people of Camelot. While others may sleep soundly in their beds, Merlin is left to suffer alone in his room as a desire consumes him each time the sun sets. Yet something is waiting in the pages of his book of magick that might briefly cure what torments him...


**Author's Note: **An extremely belated birthday present to titillating tilly, this is dedicated to her for she is the one who has shown me the light of this beautiful fandom. Obviously this is my first fic for Merlin, and if I feel confident enough I may continue to write more. Hope you enjoy it!

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The arms of dusk now cradled Camelot in its pacifying embrace. The simple and hardworking folk of the illustrious kingdom were all settling down for their much needed respite so that they could continue the cycle all over again when they awoke for another demanding day. Only a few souls with the most taxing forms of servitude were forced to finish their work at the very tail end of the night; individuals like the court physician and his apprentice were of such an industrious group.

The old doctor brushed a fine layer of dust off of an old leather bound volume and cracked it open; only glancing at the first few words on the page before setting it down, "Alright Merlin, I believe it's time we turned ourselves in."

His young apprentice turned to him whilst he continued cleaning the remnants of their evening meal from the table, "Oh sleep sounds good about now. I'll need all I can get for tomorrow."

"Indeed. I'm sure Arthur will expect a lot out of you in preparation for the tournament."

Merlin scoffed, "Oh the prince will be as charming and pleasant as he always is. I can see myself now just scrambling to get all his armor together hoping I'll get it right..."

Gaius chuckled, "Cheer up, Merlin. If nothing else you'll have all the time away from Arthur while you muck the stalls."

"I can't wait for that...", he said dryly.

"Come now, you've already gotten through the last few days just fine. It can't be as bad as all that."

"Between the bruises and the stench of the horses it certainly feels 'as bad as all that'."

The wise elder man got up from his seat, "Well let's just see what tomorrow brings before we start getting ahead of ourselves. Why don't you focus on getting a good night's rest for now?"

"Alright. Good night, Gaius."

Gaius nodded with a gentle smile, "Good night, Merlin."

He watched his apprentice ascend the small set of steps that led to his room; the boy opened his door and stood curiously still in the open doorway.

"Merlin...", he called out, "What's the matter?"

Immediately the apprentice was torn from whatever state his mind had settled into and he turned and shook his head, "Oh nothing. Just thinking is all."

The inner workings of this young man had always been a mystery to Gaius; it was hard to tell what was going on within him. All he could do was pry a little further in hopes of getting an answer, "Thinking of what?"

Again Merlin shrugged, "Nothing."

The old man stared at him for a moment, unsure of his sincerity but then decidedly dropped the issue, "Very well..."

After that the dark haired boy entered his bedroom without further delay, and the court physician was left to lay himself down for a peaceful night of slumber like so many others in the kingdom; with nothing but blank dreams to entertain them in their rest.

For the young Merlin, however, sleep would not come so easily. As his body hopelessly rested against the wooden door of his tiny chamber he looked at his small empty bed with dread; like most youths are prone to do, he had lied to his master in order to deflect his concerns. For he carried within him a desire that burned so strongly that he feared releasing it into the world by means of his trouble lips would bring disaster. A vibrant passion lay beating fiercely underneath his weary ribcage; for it had surely taken over his young heart, a pulsing muscle no longer existed there, only this desire.

In the light of day he could shun this longing into the recesses of his mind; when he was distracted by the many tasks that came with his servitude in Camelot, but even every now and then in a quiet moment of stillness would give rise to the opportunity of this cupidity until he had to force it back into blackness.

Yet the night was a different arena altogether, for there was little distract him from entertaining thoughts of that unwholesome yearning; especially when he searched for sleep in the comfort of his own bed. Viciously it would steal all those needed hours of rest away from his soul and leave him awake in the heat of madness. His bed was no longer a place of respite, but rather a grave for him to toss and turn in as his fervor danced inside of him without inhibition.

At the heart of this desire lay only the form of one; the man upon which the future of the land rested, the man who he had to tirelessly obey every command from, the prince of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon.

Indeed it was a paradox of the most twisted of sorts, on one hand Arthur was full of obnoxious arrogance and brutal impatience; Merlin was not lying when he said he dreaded laboring for the man. The mark of nobility had fiercely instilled these unfavorable qualities in the prince. There were times when his demands and expectations were wrought with a child's temper. Merlin could remember having his first run in with the heir to the throne; those days felt as if they were still close at times. Despite his aching body and weary mind, there was no doubt that he and the young prince had forged an odd bond through his infantile ego. He'd come to appreciate this almost laughable flaw in Arthur.

Somehow, there was another side to this man, underneath his aggravatingly entitled nature lay something much more captivating – a just and noble nature. In the time that he'd spent with Arthur, he had come to see something within him that he'd seen in no one else; there were instances where he was able to see tiny fragments of the man Arthur was meant to become. It was these scintilla of inklings that he'd become so enamored with, and therein lay the other hand of this contradiction that was their unorthodox bond.

Merlin had tried hard to shut out these little notions of honor and justice in the young Pendragon, to pass them off as mistaken forms of those high ideals. Yet his heart told him otherwise, and it only endeared him to Arthur even more. By now they'd spent a great deal of time together, and by fate's design their lives were meant to parallel and entwine beyond even his understanding of the prophecy of which they were yet to fulfill. Perhaps it was even fate itself that was stirring this desire in him in order to keep him chained to the man. Although Merlin wished he'd simply been put under an enchantment of sorts, and that he could slay this need for Arthur by finding the root of the spell. Yet he knew the only magic at work here was the governing order of the heart. How to deal a problem such as this, his understanding was limited and at the moment he had no idea who he could confide; he dare not even consult the wise dragon that slumbered in the underbelly of the castle.

He sighed with defeat as he slowly made his way to the small bed. He quietly took off his boots and laid them just beside the foot of the bedframe. He reached around the back of his head to give a gentle tug at the knot that tied his red scarf to his neck, after which he shoved it underneath his pillow.

Without warning a subtle draft washed over him, telling him that tonight wasn't a particular night to remove any other articles of clothing; but that wasn't uncommon, particularly in their quarters.

Thankfully it wasn't the coldest night Camelot had endured, but it certainly was chilly enough that it nagged at the skin of all that hadn't escaped to their beds.

Merlin pulled the sheets just down far enough to where he could quickly slip into them. As expected, the layer between the blankets and the bedding was almost as cold as the air. It would take a few minutes before his own body heat would help settle him in. Now all he could do was pray that sleep would somehow come quickly as he laid on his back while staring at the ceiling; he didn't want that passion to take hold of him. His eyes closed, though not by the weight of sleep, but simply of his own conscious will.

As the minutes passed his bed became slightly warmer than before; eventually his muscles could finally unclench themselves and he relaxed.

"_I'm gonna hate leaving this bed by the time morning comes..."_

He had never fully adjusted to this life of being the future king's servant and shadowing protector, and he wasn't sure if he ever would. In a lot of ways it seemed to be more agony than it was worth, despite whatever grand scheme was in the works for Arthur and the land of Camelot.

Still, he couldn't deny the underlying thrill of the perilous days when their destiny was at stake; he couldn't deny that his life certainly had become more interesting ever since he left his humble village in search of something more. Nevertheless, for all that adventure it was equally daunting to know that in the greatest of those perils his magick was the only thing that kept that fragile destiny alive. Of course it wasn't as if Arthur were completely helpless, his bravery and strength certainly had been proven to be abundant in the darkest of times. For all his arrogance and immaturity, Merlin had to admit that there was something more to the young prince; and it always took him by surprise whenever that something surfaced. Perhaps this unnamed, incomplete quality would arise in the nobleman in the heat of the tournament of tomorrow as Arthur tried to prove himself not only to his father, but to the kingdom as well.

For all the hardship that events like the tournaments brought, it was still a sight to behold the prince in his element.

Merlin could already hear the sound of the crowds cheering at the sight of sword and muscle being put to the test, and there Arthur would be in the midst of it all; boldly dueling even his own men. After rounds and rounds of horses rushing toward the other, broadswords clashing against morning stars, links of chainmail snapping from the whole of armor, ladies of the court gasping as their respective champions battled, and the climax of the energy of the final round with Arthur standing triumphantly as the victor in all competitions. The warlock would never forget the sight that played out each time Arthur participated – lifting his helmet from his head, his blonde locks slightly disheveled, that smile that rose over his full lips as glistening beads of sweat dotted his forehead; showcasing his efforts.

It was this Arthur Pendragon that he so longed for.

His longing was only heightened when he would return with Arthur to his tent and help him remove his armor and dress his wounds; by now he'd been acquainted with almost every inch of bare flesh of the prince, and it was all he could do to hide his want by feigning ignorance of all aspects of Arthur's words or simply getting the best of Arthur's proposed lesser intelligence by subtly mocking him in an attempt to stifle that longing; only to go away with a crisp impression of Arthur's handsomely sculpted form in his memory.

The magician gripped the sheets beneath him in frustration as he sighed with regret; fully knowing his mistake of conjuring such images in his head. His careless mind had already fed the desire within; his heart began beating wildly and his breathing hitched with defeat – no rest would come to him this night.

Within seconds his lonely beating heart had his pulse quickening as if he were running the castle halls; the air seemed to grow warmer, and the once frigid blankets were now suffocating and hot. With great haste he tore them away as if they were an insect that had crawled over him. Merlin shifted his right leg; the gentle movement had stirred his already half-attentive anatomy into its fully awake state. As he laid upon the battered bedding he began contemplating how he should handle such a delicate situation. Indeed the average man would simply turn to his whatever lover that lay beside him, but for Merlin, his only method of release would be of his own touch.

His hand traveled downward; slipping into the depths of his trousers and brushed against the yearning between his legs, and felt the warmth of himself burning under his fingers. A hushed whimper trembled in his mouth; wanting for so much more than just this.

While satisfying himself in the sheath of his hand would stave off the desire in his body, it would not sate the desire in his soul.

His ire escalated, and he forced himself to break the contact. He rolled over and sat up on the edge of the humble cot; staring at the nothingness of the floor. In the length of silence and stillness, he continued to torment himself over his predicament. Much like other men, even those without magick, desperation forced a solution to present itself. A twinge ran up Merlin's spine at a particular notion, causing his posture to straighten just slightly. His blue eyes traveled to the foot of his bed, as if a secret lived there; and as with all men with something to hide, his secret called to him in his time of need.

Merlin toyed with his lower lip for a moment; pondering over whether he should take the next step in whatever curious idea was swimming around inside his head.

Slowly he grabbed a corner of the mattress and pulled it up; and there lay his most secreted book of sorcery. He picked it up and rested it in his lap; gently tapping on the hard cover of the volume. When he seemed comfortable with this he then reached under the bed and retrieved a small burlap sack from the space. Gingerly he pulled at the fringes of it, opening the parcel; inside lay a refined goblet of royal silver and three glass vials, all containing some form of powder or leaves.

It had been some time since the young sorcerer had laid his hands on these objects; though it seemed like only yesterday when he'd stumbled upon a particular page in the illegal codex. The spell that was written there was not one of malicious destruction or a means for unruly power, but rather a way to briefly allay and humor an aching heart.

Of course it wasn't a simple incantation alone that was necessary for such a task, but a few items were needed as well; for this was a spell of creation, and one that was of a slight complexity.

The materials that the vials contained were rather easy to procure, two of which he need only look to his mentor's impressive collection of potions and salts to find. The third ingredient required half a day's ride out to a fertile valley where the flower needed for the ritual grew, and it was easy to sublimely ease Arthur into going on a hunt in the area.

The last item required for the spell was a little trickier but had been acquired none the less; though it was more of an "accident" on Merlin's part.

The silver chalice belonged to the Pendragon family, and it was one that was used during special feast honoring the success of the newest members of Arthur's most elite brigade; and it was not the King or his ward who had pressed their lips to its rim, but it was the prince himself. It was only this reason that the warlock dared to "borrow" it, and not for its monetary value. In truth he hadn't truly realized what he had done until the cup was lying on his bedside. Surprisingly the chalice hadn't seemed to be missed by the other servants or the royal family themselves. Of course he told himself that he would return it the next day, but somehow couldn't bring himself to part with it nor even actually perform the spell. So it continued to remain underneath his bed conveniently sitting in the burlap sack along with the other items required for the mysterious ritual in which he'd become so tempted by.

His longing had not been so great those nights, however, and it showed by the way he continually turned the goblet in his fingers; never taking his eyes off of it.

Upon another small moment's span, he set the regal cup gently on the cold floor; kneeling beside it as he laid his book of sorcery beside him.

He would suffer no more; he was forced to this, no matter what the consequences would be.

With his guilt now swallowed and lying unnoticed in the pit of his stomach, he willed the spellbook to be opened to the exact page where the guiding words of the ritual were written in weathered and worn ink. The young warlock wasted no time in setting his vials in a line next to the cup; directly opening the first one he'd previously set up and poured its contents into the chalice, burning red petals speckled with darker vermillion and harsh black rustled down into the bottom of the cup. While Arthur had been hunting wild game among the lush foliage, Merlin had been hunting flowers of lust, of bewilderment, and of spirit. Their rarity and relatively non-existence to the common man had left them unnamable in any tongue that was not of the druid fellowship.

Next was a brown, gritty powder that was generally used to aid in the healing of broken bones and open wounds when consumed orally, and the other being simply purified water. Both of these almost unremarkable elements came straight from Gaius' shelves.

By the time the pristine water had been added the inside of the cup had taken on an intriguing state; a brackish liquid tinged with crimson streaks bleeding off from the beautiful petals.

Merlin's eyes shifted back to the open book, now all that was left was for him to invoke the incantation from his lips. The tip of his tongue rose to the roof of his mouth, preparing itself to pronounce the very first word of the ancient language; it stayed there for a singular moment. Then without further hesitation they poured out; forbidden words of passion that called forth illicit power. As he recited the invocation he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and his pulse quickened with unfettered hysteria. He had to force himself to remain still; he feared that any moment he might stumble over just one syllable and he might lose all confidence in continuing further.

Before he knew it, however, the last word had fallen from him effortlessly like the last raindrop from a storm.

Immediately the blue of his eyes glowed into fierce yellow; reflecting the majesty of his innate gift, then chilled back into their icy state.

The silver chalice, which was both a containment for the strange liquid and a token of Arthur, was affected by Merlin's incantation.

It was apparent that the ritual had been successful, for a few streaks of mist began twirling vaporous fingers from the basin of the goblet...

As the concoction within it hissed and sizzled, the mist began growing denser; the opaque tendrils grew into mystifying clouds. The tiny mist was almost a towering fog now that filled most of his room. Merlin almost went into a panic seeing it grow in such a way, wondering when it would stop. Swirling about the walls, the enchanting haze started to become more vibrant in its movement; two broad strokes of mist began slithering out from the main column of the cloud. The small vapors which seemed to animate them continued to define themselves even more; the shape in which they took were of strong, masculine arms. The arms drew near to the young warlock, as they traveled outward to him even greater mortal contours were beckoned from the mist. It all happened so fast Merlin hardly conceived of it all in its entirety; and when the mysterious shape had been fully driven from its origin he found himself looking into the face of Arthur Pendragon.

He couldn't bring himself to speak at first, all he could do was continue to stare at the fabricated prince; and feel a cool hand caressing his cheek.

Merlin exhaled deeply as the prince's thumb gingerly stroked his skin.

The spellcaster was now spellbound by his own creation as he looked him up and down in his nakedness; finding no flaw in this Arthur, it was as if he were standing before the blonde man himself. Surely he'd had many opportunities to gaze upon the real Arthur in such a way, and again his experience could still not find anything to break his belief in what he was seeing; but it was so much more now, feeling Arthur touching his cheek. How long had he craved for this intimacy with the man?

It seemed as if Arthur had no intentions of speaking either, he merely placed his other hand over Merlin's other uncovered cheek.

"Arthur...", Merlin whispered as he gently broke the silence between them.

The Prince of Camelot was provoked by the endearing call of his summoner, saying nothing still, only leaning in to kiss the face that he held in his hands.

Their lips touched; and Merlin was lost to him, savoring the way Arthur's full lips swept over his own. In time those full lips would overtake his as their kiss deepened. The warlock was engulfed in him; feeling his tongue slipping into his mouth so that it would toy with his. It was like drinking water from the purest stream as Merlin was overcome with Arthur's saliva; cool and invigorating as it intermixed with his own spit in his mouth. Indeed even his hands left a soothing chill over every pore that they brushed over; Merlin could almost feel tiny droplets of water glazing over his skin, an effect most likely due to the composition of this spell-made fantasy. Though it was unexpected, Merlin wasn't put off by it; in some strange way it was almost calming.

Arthur pulled away from their embrace, and his lips moved down into the nape of his neck; and there he remained as his hands began slowly picking at the latches, buttons, and strings of Merlin's clothing.

"Arthur...", he whispered again; practically frozen in place by sheer pleasure.

The prince broke contact only long enough to remove the young wizard's shirts, and upon their removal, his hands immediately went for the exposed nipples of his lover; fingers gently teasing those tiny peaks until the blood had rushed to them in the heat of such attention. When he seemed to be satisfied with this, Arthur lunged for Merlin's throat; still teasing one rose-colored nipple with one hand while the other wrapped around Merlin's waist. As the phantom of the future king continued kissing his neck, Merlin practically melted into his embrace; running his fingers through the silky patches of golden blonde hair along the back of Arthur's head. The prince then turned to the task of removing Merlin's trousers, his fingers dug at the waistline of the garment, and pulled them downward. The only barrier that kept their bare flesh apart was dealt with in mere seconds, though to Merlin it wasn't fast enough. His entire being was screaming for more of every aspect of this, and he felt no hesitance or fear when his legs left the confines of the now useless leggings that had been discarded upon the floor.

Without so much as even glancing at the rest of his naked body, Arthur immediately groped the length of Merlin's sex, and began stroking him in earnest.

Indeed his touch was enough that Merlin almost instantly cried out in unexpected bliss, but he stifled the troublesome moan before it could escape him. Had it not been for the fact that this was not the real Arthur Pendragon he'd have felt completely embarrassed for being so easily enraptured; for he knew without a doubt it would have caused some boastful and demeaning comment from him otherwise. It most likely would have been something of him comparing him to an overeager maiden or something of the sort. Though it did not take him long to adjust his senses to this new array of sensations, and thereafter the sorcerer was returning the favor. As his hand gently rubbed the young Pendragon's member, Merlin briefly recounted the times he'd wondered what such masculinity would feel like under the grip of his fingers; and finally getting this far into his fantasy was something of an accomplishment in of itself.

Arthur continued to say nothing throughout their endeavor, letting Merlin feel him in his entirety; in fact Merlin had almost missed the sensation of the prince's hand on his own anatomy. Though as pleasurable as it had been, he wasn't put off by the groping hands that were now insistently squeezing his backside. Arthur pulled Merlin closer to him, kissing him again. Upon the contact of their two forms, their erections brushed against each other. This subtle touch was wonderfully maddening to Merlin; immediately his body responded with a light thrust. His sex slide over Arthur's, and then traveled up the firm plain of his stomach before sliding back down to repeat the process. The illusionary prince reciprocated his movements, gently pressing his anatomy against the warlock's as well.

Merlin had never known such a simple joy; the feel of Arthur's taut flesh, the softness of the blonde hair that grew between his legs, even the duality of his movements.

By pure autonomy and unregistered will, the warlock made a slow backward influence on their position; until the mist-born prince eased him onto the bed. Their chilled kisses and harried grinding against one another continued in the soft confines of the bedding. Merlin's arms and legs wrapped possessively around his stunning creation; pale hands kneading insistently upon broad shoulders, lithe and thin legs locking themselves with muscular and stern legs.

All at once, Merlin was at a loss for himself; he wanted to experience so much more with this façade of royalty.

Yet the fabric of the night was unraveling; there was only so much time left, and most of all he longed for the feeling of being taken by the image of his passion.

As he stared into the eyes of Arthur, he pondered; could this silent golem of vapor and magick ever understand such a human desire?

His thoughts were immediately broken as he felt the prince gently roll him onto his stomach, and coaxed him into sitting up; as if he knew the wishes of his creator. Perhaps he might not understand the reasoning of the heart, but it seemed as if he understood the simplistic wants of it.

Merlin readied himself as he rested on his knees, leaning against the cold wall that lay before the head of his small cot. He turned his head just enough to see Prince Arthur bringing himself closer to him out of the corner of his eye. His heart raced wildly as he felt cold hands rest on either side of his waist. He took in the feeling of Arthur's erection brushing against his lower half, and then removing one hand from Merlin's waist to gingerly pry at the tiny orifice that awaited him. A small and sharp gasp escaped from the sorcerer; instinctively spreading his legs farther apart.

The coldness of the prince's fingers was somehow agonizing and enthralling at once; and he could feel a wetness building inside of him, the same way he felt when Arthur would touch any other part of him.

When it seemed he was satisfied with his work, the apparition of the young Pendragon guided his fully hardened sex and plunged the tip of himself into Merlin.

Immediately the warlock opened his mouth to cry out, but quickly willed his jaw to snap shut and extinguish it to a mere whine that hung in his throat; dreading even the thought of Gaius hearing such commotion.

Arthur gently worked himself deeper; his well-toned arms enveloped the smaller frame of the dark-haired sorcerer. They held him in a pristine heaven for brief moments; until the prince's right hand traveled down the scape of Merlin's body, and gripped the warlock's erection. It took that much more effort for Merlin to stifle his exclamations of rapture; the well-timed thrusts of Arthur's hips coupled with the encompassing stroke of his hand. Merlin wondered if he would ever know greater pleasure in his life, though he was sure that the real Arthur Pendragon would never go out of his way to give such satisfaction to a serving boy in this manner. Despite the severity of the thought, it didn't stay in his mind for long. Then again it seemed as if no real thought could overtake his conscience at this moment, for all there was now was the feeling of his own Arthur Pendragon and the passion in which he gave him. Merlin's body could hardly contain the immensity of the pleasure of which he felt; his fingers scrapped uselessly at the hard wall for purchase they would not find, until he threw one hand behind his head where it lovingly delved into a sea of silky blonde strands.

Arthur closed what was left of the small gap between them, kissing the back of Merlin's neck.

In no way could Merlin deny the unearthly sensation of this; the gelid temperature in which the prince left his skin, all over he was covered in a cool sheen. He could not tell if it were sweat or water. In normal circumstances such a thing would be contemptible, yet he found himself loving this strange feeling of cold; it only made his pounding heart beat faster and hotter. He dared not to do even the slightest thing to disrupt the perfect movements of the phantasm of lust; merely enjoying it as it went on.

Though the intensity of it all, the warlock could feel that pull of his stamina beginning to wane; soon pleasure would swallow him whole and the fuel of his passion would be released.

He desperately tried to ignore it, to hold off on it; knowing that it would break the spell. All he wanted now was to remain in this heaven for time indefinite. Yet within a matter of seconds Arthur drove deep into Merlin once more, and left one subtle kiss upon the pulsing vein in his plaid neck; and the warlock's senses were driven over the edge.

"Arthur!", Merlin shouted in hampered relief as he spilt his seed; warm streams of his essence flowing over the young Pendragon's fingers before dripping down onto the edge of the straw-filled mattress.

His body went completely slack; it was as if all the energy in his body had been shot out along with his lust. He was only fortune that the mist-born prince was there to keep his limp form from falling off the bed. The illusionary Arthur Pendragon guided him until he was lying completely on his side; his own shape resting beside Merlin's. The sorcerer fought to stay awake; wanting to see the makings of his ritual one last time, yet he could not find the strength to turn his body. All he could do was lie there; his tired, bloodshot eyes staring off into nothingness as he watched waves of vaporous clouds drifting over him. He staved off sleep only to enjoy what tangibility was left of this prince of mist.

By the time the first rays of the dawn had touched the horizon of Camelot, there would be no golden haired prince lying in his bed, only an empty silver chalice on his floor…

**{{{{※}}}}**

The future king of Camelot pulled himself from the depths of his plush covers; looking at the suddenly familiar scenery of his chambers.

He had awoken without warning, as if he'd been pushed out of a dream. It had certainly been a dream, for his body had not been wracked with the misery of fear that is bolstered in nightmares. On the contrary he felt exceedingly good. Yet he also found his sheets to be soaked with cold sweat; they were practically drenched. It was as if someone had snuck into his room and dumped a bucket of water onto him, either that or he'd just jumped into the castle moat for a swim in his sleep and managed to find his way back into his bed afterward. He couldn't begin to guess what kind of dream could cause such an outcome.

Arthur could scarcely remember what it was.

He shifted in the layers of his blankets trying to bring back the fragments of the dream…

He remembered being needed, or called upon rather, though it was not to defend his father's kingdom nor take up a quest to show his dedication to the people. It was something more simple than that…

The prince recalled the smell of grimy earth, of enchanting flowers, and the soothing embrace of untainted water…

Upon regaining such imagery, he immediately became aroused; solely by instinct his hand traveled down to take care of the nagging wants of his body, but his hand only toyed with the length of his shaft. His mind was still focused on reclaiming the mystery of his dreams.

As he contemplated on it further he could only remember the feeling of embracing _something_, _someone_ who felt pure and endearing to him. It was certainly not a lady of the court or some object of which could be easily identified, but it was something familiar none the less. As he dwelled on the thought of this unknown something or someone his desire increased; as did the pace of his hand.

In the heat of the moment a brief and clear image formed in his memory; pale exposed skin dimpled by the bones of a spine drifting down a small back… Locks of dark chocolate hair…

His lips began to form a word, his tongue letting the first of it slip, "M–"

A sudden knock at the door startled him to the point where he immediately sat up, and quickly tried to make himself seem as if he'd been just been disturbed from sleep, "Come in!"

Morgana stepped in wearing a stunning purple dress that was obviously new and reserved just for the upcoming event; crossing her arms as she stared at the prince from across the room, "Perhaps I should be fighting in the tournament instead; seeing as I don't need my servant to wake me for such occasions."

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes as he replied, "I don't think my father would be happy with the idea of his ward fighting in a contest for specifically for men."

"I suppose not. Speaking of your father he's waiting for you in the grand hall.", she informed.

"Very well. Thank you, Morgana."

She nodded, "Good luck, Arthur."

Without another word the raven-haired beauty retreated from his room.

Arthur Pendragon stared at his chamber door for a moment, annoyed that he had not been able to finish what he started but he assumed it was for the best considering he did have a tournament to prepare for. Perhaps he'd never know who the wonderful being which he'd seen in his dreams. He stood up out of the bed, but immediately felt as if something was amiss. He instantly realized what it was.

"Where is Merlin?!"


End file.
